A Proper Holiday
by LilyBolt
Summary: Dean is getting a little carried away with the contents of an old crate, and Sam is worried about his brother's motives. . . . A Christmas-oriented oneshot taking place during season 8. No slash. Written for the lovely GuestJ's birthday!


**WARNING: Spoilers for 3x08 "A Very Supernatural Christmas" through season 8 in general (and especially 8x13 "Everybody Hates Hitler").**

 **Author's Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY GUESTJ! :D I wrote this for you based off of a very old request you had given me. You asked, "W** **hat can you do with 'rusty nail' and 'crowbar'?" The answer is: this story. ;) This takes place during December of season 8, although this is technically AU in timeline, because we're pretending here that Sam and Dean had their first ever Christmas season in the Bunker _before_ Sam began the Trials. I hope you enjoy! :)  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

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The string of muttered complaints and profanities coming from Dean's bedroom gave Sam pause on his way down the hall.

" _Damn stupid…sharp…hurt like a…bitch."_

Sam noticed Dean's door was open, and as he got closer the sound of running water also became apparent.

"Dean?" Sam called out as he poked his head around the doorframe to investigate.

The elder Winchester was leaning over the porcelain sink near his door and holding a bloodied finger under the tap while streaks of crimson swirled down the drain.

"Are you ok?" asked Sam.

Dean glanced up, clearly too irritated by his injury to be startled by his brother's arrival. "Hey, where's our crowbar at?" he asked.

Sam couldn't help but to counter with a befuddled, "Did you say _crowbar_?"

"Yeah, the crowbar. Where'd you put it?" Dean repeated as though the question were entirely logical given the situation. His attention was primarily on his still-bleeding extremity.

"Oh, right. I took it jogging with me this morning like normal," Sam tossed back sarcastically, causing Dean to turn a scowl his way.

"Ha ha," the older brother deadpanned. "Don't get cute with me. I'm asking for a reason you know."

"I don't know where the crowbar is," Sam answered with seriousness, "and I definitely don't know how that's going to fix your cut. You know crowbars pry stuff open, right? They don't stitch anything up."

Dean, his finger no longer leaking blood, turned off the faucet and stared back at Sam. "Since when are you Mr. One-Liner?"

"Since when are you such a grouch about a joke?" retorted Sam.

"Since I just got stabbed by a damn rusty nail trying to open one of those Men of Letters crates without the crowbar, because it wasn't in the trunk where it should be," explained Dean, still sounding sour.

At least Sam now understood the connection between Dean's injury and his search for their crowbar. "Bet you're glad I made you get that last Tetanus shot, huh?" he pointed out. Dean glowered at him, but he didn't argue. Sam knew it was as close to a 'you're right, little brother' as the younger hunter was going to get. Relenting, Sam promised, "I'll go check in the kitchen. We might have a spare with the other tools in that one drawer."

 **OoO**

So it went that Sam eventually _did_ locate an extra crowbar in the drawer of household tools and blades the Men of Letters had kept in their kitchen for no discernible reason, and he aided Dean in finishing breaking into an old wooden crate they'd found hidden away in one of the Bunker's closets.

"Shouldn't it have said 'holidays' or 'Christmas' or something on the box?" Dean queried when the removal of the lid revealed a cluster of gold garland, some red and green streamers, and a collection of Christmas baubles for decorating a tree.

"I guess the Men of Letters stationed here all knew what this box was for," Sam offered, shifting the roll of garlands to uncover yet more ornaments underneath.

The brothers stared at the contents of the box in silence for a moment, until Dean did something Sam would never have expected.

The older man hefted the box off the floor and began carrying it out to the Bunker's front room.

Sam followed along behind Dean, becoming increasingly confused as the elder sibling plopped the crate down on the map table and began unfurling the coils of garland from within. "You're _decorating_ for Christmas?" he asked. Sure, Dean had always been more attached to Christmas than Sam had been, but even so he had never been one to make a huge fuss about the holiday. Not in a long time, anyway.

Dean walked to the top of their spiral staircase, garland bundled carefully in his arms. "We can wrap this around the railing. Looks like there should be enough," he suggested, ignoring Sam's obvious surprise.

Sam had no idea what had gotten into his brother, and a small part of him fretted that this behavior from Dean was a red flag; the last time Dean had been eager to do Christmas things, he'd believed he was doomed to go to Hell within less than a year's time.

But instead of voicing his concerns, Sam offered to help Dean wrap the rails in gold.

 **OoO**

In the coming days, Sam would be shocked to discover Dean's enthusiasm for Christmas décor only grew.

The day after the garland was situated, Dean grabbed the red and green streamers and some tape, and together the brothers left their festive mark along the shelves of the library.

A week later Sam was awakened early by Dean who was carrying an ax and saying, "I think I spotted a nice tree up the hill from us a bit."

"A tree for what?" Sam asked, trying not to yawn.

"For Arbor Day. What do you think?" Dean snarked, but his tone was completely serious when he later told Sam they ought to pull all the baubles from the crate to dress their Christmas tree up.

Sam steadily began to worry more that maybe Dean really _was_ in some kind of trouble, especially when Dean went so far as to buy extra garland and streamers for the tree itself, along with an array of classic white lights.

"I thought white just looked the most Christmassy," he commented as he and Sam watched the lights spring to life for the first time after being hung around the tree's branches and plugged in.

"I think you made the right call," complimented Sam, trying to bury his ever-mounting fears that Dean was hiding some kind of horrific bad news from him.

Because at least Dean was smiling while looking at the glimmering tree.

 **OoO**

The stockings finally got Sam talking.

Dean arrived home from a grocery run with several bags of their usual foods and drinks. He carried everything into the kitchen with Sam's help, and while they were putting the haul away he revealed he had also purchased two red-and-green-plaid stockings with white felt trim.

"Figured we could write our names on 'em in _Sharpie_ ," announced Dean as he proudly showed off his selections and laid a permanent marker on the table beside them. "Wha'd'ya say?"

Sam's chest tightened.

They hadn't had stockings since they were little kids, and even then they'd only had them the few Christmases they'd gotten to spend at Bobby's place. If Dean was going so far as to include something that unusual into their holiday, then surely something terrible was around the bend.

"Dean, tell me what's wrong," Sam commanded, his voice low and reserved as he tried to brace for the worst.

"I thought they looked good," said Dean, a little crestfallen.

Sam wasn't buying it. "When it was just a box of old decorations that was one thing. But you chopped down a tree! You paid money for lights! You got us _stockings_!" Sam felt his stomach lurch from voicing the severity of the situation. "What's wrong? Please, just tell me. Not knowing it's coming is worse, man, and I at least want the _chance_ to help you, even if you think I can't!"

"Knowing _what's_ coming? I don't need help with anything. Sammy, you're not making any-" Dean began to argue, but he stopped midsentence as comprehension struck him.

The memories of that last Christmas with Dean – the one he'd been so terrified would be their last in every sense of the word - left Sam's old wounds aching. It also left him dreading whatever new ones awaited him. "Just...just tell me, please," Sam implored, his voice small.

"You think this is like before New Harmony, don't you?" Dean asked, his eyes reflecting a guilt that was equally apparent in the way he avoided saying 'Hell'.

"Are you saying it's not?" Sam asked, fighting against the hope that was trying to invade his better judgement.

"I'm saying-" Dean stared down at the stockings on their kitchen table solemnly. "I'm saying I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just dived into Christmas. I should've known it would make you think like that… I just didn't want to make Christmas awkward by drawing too much attention to how much we never do it, you know? But we have this Bunker, Sam! We have a home to actually decorate this year instead of a motel that's not worth wasting our time on. And when I found that crate I just…wanted to do Christmas right for a change. For us. For _you_. But I didn't think about what it would make you think about, and I'm sorry."

Sam felt a rush of genuine relief at the news that Dean wasn't trying to have one last holiday before something awful would befall him. Dean wasn't in trouble, or leaving, or dying…

Dean was just trying to give them a _proper_ holiday, one with a home to celebrate it in and no doom clouding the horizon.

Sam didn't know how to say 'thank you', but when he grabbed a _Sharpie_ off their kitchen table and asked, "Are we doing initials like usual?", he was pretty confident his brother got the message.

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 **Secondary Author's Note: Thanks for reading! GuestJ, I hope you have the loveliest of birthdays, because you are among the loveliest of people and you absolutely deserve to be celebrated. *hugs* Here's to many more, my friend! :D  
**


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